


Atomic Number

by theladyscribe



Series: Hockey WIP Amnesty [13]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Breaking Up & Making Up, M/M, Philadelphia Flyers, Pittsburgh Penguins, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:15:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26668063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/pseuds/theladyscribe
Summary: Usually when Claude got a summons from the Pens during the regular season, it was Sid being none too subtle about his hard-on for Claude. But Sid had been out for weeks now, and besides, they weren't on speaking terms at the moment.
Relationships: Sidney Crosby & Evgeni Malkin, Sidney Crosby/Claude Giroux
Series: Hockey WIP Amnesty [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/814878
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Atomic Number

**Author's Note:**

> Started writing this intending to give Sid a career-ending concussion for maximum angst, and then two days later Sid went out with an injury (the sports hernia), so I very hurriedly stopped writing. Sorry about that, Sid, I didn't mean to be a jinx.

Post-game, the Penguins' room attendant caught Claude as he stripped out of his gear. "You've got a visitor."

Usually when Claude got a summons from the Pens during the regular season, it was Sid being none too subtle about his hard-on for Claude. But Sid had been out for weeks now, and besides, they weren't on speaking terms at the moment. Claude had texted him after the hit, but he didn't even get a read receipt. He tried not to worry about it, telling himself it was because of the fight, not because of Sid's head. For all he knew, Sid blocked him and changed his number. It was the sort of petty he was capable of, to ignore Claude out of spite and pretend like the last three years had never happened.

Malkin waited for him in the hallway just outside the trainers' room, mouth flat and eyebrows drawn close. His frown deepened when he saw Claude, but he nodded toward the room, glancing furtively down the hall as if to make sure no one saw them.

It was the same room as always: smelling faintly of bleach and rink ice, an undercurrent of hockey funk that the bleach couldn't quite mask, cabinets lining one wall and massage tables opposite. The only thing that set it apart from any other trainers' room was the proliferation of Penguins decals on everything.

Malkin stood in the middle of the room, chewing at a hangnail and not meeting Claude's eyes. He looked like he wanted to pace, but there wasn't enough space for it.

"What's this about?" Claude asked at last.

Malkin dropped his hand from his mouth. "It's Sid. His head. It's bad."

"What's that got to do with me?" It came out snappish, Claude trying to hide his unease. He'd largely avoided the press about Sid. He didn't want to know. And if Sid wanted him to know, he could text him back.

Malkin shrugged, making himself look smaller than his six-foot-whatever frame should be capable of. "It's not like last couple hits. It's like… you remember."

Claude didn't remember, not really. He and Sid hadn't exactly been on speaking terms back then, either.

"I think you maybe see him?" Malkin said. "He's not drive, but we take turns after games. He likes visit, likes to talk about the games. Tell us how to fix shit power play. It's my turn, so I'm think you come with me." He shrugged again. It agitated Claude. The last time he'd seen Malkin this pulled inward had been at Worlds. It hadn't agitated him then, but he'd been on top of the world, with Sid right beside him.

"We fly back to Philly tonight," he said. Malkin nodded and turned for the door, clearly expecting the no.

"Wait." Malkin glanced back at him. Claude scratched at his beard, already regretting his decision. "We have an off-day tomorrow. Let me talk to Coach about it."

"We meet in player lot in thirty minutes." Malkin walked out, leaving Claude behind in the sterile room.

They drove out of the city in silence. Malkin seemed disinclined to chat and Claude didn't know what to say. Malkin clearly knew something about about his relationship with Sid, though what exactly Sid had told him was beyond Claude. Judging by this excursion, he probably didn't know about the fight. Or he did, and this was an attempt to get them to make up for reasons Claude couldn't quite fathom. He was fairly certain this was only going to result in more heartbreak on his end, but he'd always been a glutton for punishment.

The lights were out when Malkin pulled into Sid's driveway. He muttered something to himself in Russian, the first words he'd spoken since telling Claude to put on his seatbelt.

"If he's asleep already, I don't want to bother him," Claude started, ready to bolt at the slightest excuse.

Malkin brushed him off. "He's not sleep. Just dark in house."

"If you're sure," said Claude. He undid his seatbelt. He followed Malkin around the side of the house to the unlocked door that entered into the garage. Claude had given Sid unending grief about leaving the door unlocked all the time, but he never listened, insisting that it was fine because the door wasn't visible from the road. Claude had told him that if he came home to find someone had stolen his jock for their personal shrine, it was his own damn fault.

There was a soft light on in the back parlour, the one that opened onto the deck that overlooked the swimming pool, so that was where Malkin led him. They could hear the voices of talk radio -- the post-post-game show, Claude guessed -- the volume barely above a murmur.

Malkin rapped on the doorframe. "Sid?"

Sid's head popped up from the couch. "Hey, Geno -- Claude." His voice hardened. "What are you doing here."

Claude stepped fully into the room. "Malkin invited me."

Sid stared at him for a long moment, and Claude stared back. He looked like shit: face gaunt, shadows under his eyes. His hair had more silver in it than Claude remembered from this summer. His eyes looked a little wild, probably a trick of the dim light and not because of the concussion. Sid turned to Malkin, effectively dismissing Claude without actually telling him to go. "Tell me about Guentzy's goal in the third."

Malkin glanced uneasily at Claude but launched into walking Sid through the goal that ended up being the game-winner. The play had started on a turnover from Claude, a fact that had escaped none of them. Malkin was a rambling storyteller, pausing in the middle of Rust knocking Claude on his ass to tell Sid about his son's obsession with police dogs before jumping to changes in the team's pregame menu and then doubling back to Dumoulin snapping the puck to Malkin, who sent it ahead to Guentzel on the breakaway.


End file.
